


The Fair Lady

by thelilging



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilging/pseuds/thelilging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as all great love stories do: in a coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fair Lady

It happens on a Wednesday in January.

Clarke is sitting in her favorite corner booth of the coffee shop on the corner of Fifth and Merryweather, cradling a cup of steaming caramel hot chocolate in her hands and squinting at the bright light of her Macbook in the dimly lit shop. Outside, the street lamps have just flickered to light, barely illuminating the dampened streets, when the bell above the front door jingles. Now, The Fair Lady is a pretty popular place. It has become a local favorite due to the cheerful grins of its tattooed staff, weekend open mic nights, and famous monster cookies, so the bell above the door is constantly announcing the presence of a new customer.

But something is different this time.

Clarke looks up from her laptop, blinking away the computer blur, and focuses on him.

It’s cheesy. Terrible, even. If anyone had described this to her, Clarke would roll her eyes and quickly excuse herself from the conversation.

But something just seems to fall into place.

He’s tall. That’s the first thing Clarke notices. His hair is dark and curly, a bit wet from the stubborn drizzle that has been clinging to the tops of the buildings all day, and he shakes his head quickly, sending droplets of water in all directions. He’s a few years older than her, Clarke guesses, with a slightly dimpled chin. Long fingers work the buttons of his coat as he glances around the shop, his lips faintly pursed as he takes in the full house.

He slips between the tables with a practiced ease that makes Clarke wonder why she’s never seen him here before. She shakes her head once, trying to clear it, and forces her eyes back down to her laptop.

If she thought it was difficult to concentrate before, it’s impossible now. Her whole body feels like it’s humming, as though there’s a tangible coil of energy keeping her constantly aware of her mystery man’s location.

Clarke sips at her cup, scowling down at it when she notices the complete lack of hot chocolate left in it. The gorgeous new patron is nearly forgotten as she stands, intent on getting herself a refill. After all, there’s no way she can finish this essay by tomorrow without some serious hot chocolate motivation.

Clarke turns.

Runs head-on into her mystery man.

Squeaks as his cold drink hits her favorite shirt.

“Fuck.”

Clarke looks up into panicked brown eyes and then back at her ruined shirt.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats emphatically. He reaches around her to put his nearly empty cup on her table. One hand reaches for her shirt before stopping, unsure, while the other slips into his dark curls with the smooth air of an action he has done dozens of times.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs finally.

“I-It’s my fault,” Clarke says, her cheeks flushing as she notices the eyes of all the surrounding tables on them.

“Don’t be stupid,” he sighs, his voice a low rasp. He pats down his pockets, coming up with a couple napkins that, judging by their crisp lines and complete lack of wrinkles, he just grabbed, and offers them to her meekly. “At least I came prepared, right?”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says, taking the napkins and dabbing gingerly at her front. “My fault.”

He watches helplessly as she wipes at her shirt in vain. “Do you need more? I can get more…”

“Who drinks iced coffee on a day like today, anyways?” Clarke mutters.

He frowns down at her. “Are you judging me on my choice in drink?”

“You just spilled your drink down my shirt,” Clarke points out, “I think I have the right to judge you on your poor life choices.”

A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Poor life choices? That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Are you going to buy me a new hot chocolate or not?” Clarke asks.

“You’re not the one who spilled their drink.”

Clarke frowns at him, disapproving, and he grins.

“What did you have?” he asks in exaggerated graciousness.

Clarke sits and tries not to feel too self-conscious as the dark-haired man goes to order another hot chocolate for her. Her favorite shirt is cold, though, sticking to her stomach and collarbone, and she seriously considers just disappearing before she has to face him again.

But then he’s slipping into the booth across from her, sliding her hot chocolate towards her and taking a swig of a new drink of his own. He tosses his black jacket on the plush seat of the booth and rolls up the sleeves of his dark gray sweater, tugs at the neck of his purple button down shirt.

“Bellamy Blake,” he says.

“Isn’t Bellamy a girl’s name?” Clarke asks, wincing internally as soon as the words leave her mouth. _Good one…_

Bellamy sighs, as though he has heard this thousands of times before. “Unisex,” he sniffs.

Clarke blows on her hot chocolate and surveys him across the table. The light from the lamp at their booth sends shadows across his face, accentuating his sharp jawline and high cheekbones.

“In our society it’s common courtesy to introduce yourself when someone tells you their name,” Bellamy says, raising his eyebrows in amusement. His eyelashes are unfairly long, Clarke notices. Almost unnervingly so.

“Clarke Griffin,” Clarke says.

“And you made fun of my name?” Bellamy grins.

“Clarke is unisex, too!”

“What are you working on?” he asks, nodding at her laptop.

Clarke blinks down at it, startled by the abrupt change in topic. “History paper.”

“Ah. On?”

“Comparing a modern day issue to one in the past,” she says with a dismissing wave of her hand. “Analyzing the similarities and potential courses of action.”

Bellamy spins his green straw contemplatively and watches his coffee swirl around in the plastic cup. “Let me guess—Syrian refugees in comparison to the Jewish people displaced by World War II?”

Clarke sniffs, offended. “I’m much more original than that, thank you very much.”

“But of course,” Bellamy says, inclining his head towards her with a smirk. “And what is your idea?”

Clarke frowns and spins her laptop to show him the blank Word document. “Writer’s block.”

His smirk widens. “What would you do if I told you I’m in the process in getting my Master’s in history?”

“Probably thank you for spilling your drink on me and then making you help me to repay me for ruining my favorite shirt.”

“That’ll come out with some stain remover,” Bellamy says, unimpressed. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Since you’re all about making deals,” Bellamy says with a cautious smile as he rests his forearms on the table, leaning towards her, “I’ll make you one in return for my help.”

Clarke sighs. “Okay. I’ll bite. What can I do for you?”

“Dinner?”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten about The President's Wife. Agent Blake and FLOTUS Clarke have a lot left to their story...   
> My life just needs to get out of the way.
> 
> Let me know what you thought.


End file.
